Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

JJ loved her job. Really, she did.

But sometimes she had no idea how she ended up here. The BAU, the most exclusive unit in the FBI. And it wasn’t even because of her talent, not her profiling, not her instinct, not even her people skills. She was here because of politics.

And she hated that.

What she would give to turn back time.

1 Year Earlier,

At 25, JJ sat in her boss’s office, arms crossed tightly over her chest, listening as he laid out her next assignment.

“You’ll be embedded with the Behavioural Analysis Unit. Your alias will be media liaison. You’ll handle reporters, craft statements, and—” his tone sharpened, “—you’ll keep me informed about anything unusual you observe.”

JJ swallowed. “So… spy on them.”

“Observe,” he corrected. “Report. Do not get involved.”

She wasn’t given much more than that. Only that the BAU needed someone to manage the press before Jason Gideon put his foot in his mouth.

So JJ dyed her hair blonde, once again, traded her badass leather jackets for professional blazers, and slipped into a new identity. She was relieved when she learned she could keep her real name this time… until she realized that was probably a bad sign for her future.

The next day, she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. The blonde hair was too bright, the blazer too stiff. She tilted her head, trying to see the professional the Bureau wanted. Instead, she saw a soldier playing dress-up. Somewhere beneath the neat makeup and pressed fabric, she missed the version of herself who lived in leather jackets and combat boots. — the version of herself that hadn’t been buried under assignments and aliases.

She clipped her ID to her lapel and whispered her mantra: Jennifer Jareau. Media Liaison. Not spy. Not agent. Not herself.

The first day,

The BAU bullpen smelled of burnt coffee and printer ink. JJ walked in quietly, cataloguing exits, cameras, and the nearest holstered weapon, at an agent’s hip.

Gideon muttered over case files, scribbling as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. Across from him, Reid rattled off statistics while Morgan only half-listened, amusement tugging at his mouth. From the upper level, Hotch watched it all with sharp, calculating eyes.

They barely looked up when JJ introduced herself. Which suited her fine. The less attention, the better.

Her first assignment came faster than she expected: a press call about a missing child. Gideon wanted to handle the cameras himself, but Hotch waved her forward.

JJ pasted on a calm smile and stepped into the swarm of microphones. “We’re working around the clock to bring this child home,” she said, voice steady and measured. To the team, it was polished PR. To Strauss, it was proof she could do exactly what was required of her, be her perfect little spy and she hated it.

Even as she spoke, her eyes flicked to cameras, exits, and the agents standing nearby. Old habits died hard. She hadn’t been placed here to smile for reporters, not really.

When she returned to the bullpen, her gaze landed on the desk in the far corner. Empty. Waiting.

Reserved for someone yet to arrive.

JJ had no idea that when that someone walked through the doors, everything she’d buried would come crashing back and the one thing she could never truly hide would be written in her eyes.

Chapter Text

The bullpen smelled a little less intimidating by week two. JJ still catalogued every exit and security camera, but she’d learned which chairs were safe, which agents talked too much, and which ones you simply observed from a distance.

Garcia was the first to break the ice.

“Hey! You! Blondie!” she squealed one afternoon, practically bouncing over JJ’s desk. “You need a night out. Ladies stick together, right? We’re going karaoke. You in?”

JJ blinked, caught off guard. “Karaoke?”

“Yes! Nothing bonds a team like off-key singing and tequila. Trust me.”

JJ laughed before she could stop herself. She was used to missions that ended in explosions or interrogation rooms. This? This felt… human. Warm. Safe.

Derek Morgan, predictably, teased her about it later. “You gonna show Garcia your soccer skills too? Or is that only for reporters?”

“I actually played in college,” JJ said, smirking. It was nice to let that slip without fear of Strauss watching over her shoulder.

Hotchner was harder to crack. He barely said more than a word at a time, but his small gestures, a nod of approval, a coffee left on her desk during late-night cases. Told JJ she was making her way in. Gideon, silent as ever, only gave a brief nod one morning, and she counted that as a win.

A Month Later,

JJ had nearly forgotten the real reason she was there. Handling press conferences, helping with statements, and learning the quirks of her team had felt… normal. Fun, even.

Until the call came from her Boss.

Her phone buzzed with an encrypted message. The words were short, clipped, and entirely unlike the warmth she’d come to enjoy in her BAU life:

“Observe. Report. I expect details. Everything else is irrelevant. ~ Strauss”

JJ’s stomach sank. She had been having fun, really enjoying being part of a team. But now she remembered: she wasn’t just here to be a liaison. She was a spy, feeding her boss information about her own team but know she knows her target is Strauss.

The first few reports she filed for Strauss were straightforward: Gideon’s leadership style, Hotch’s subtle breaking of the rules, Reid’s brilliance, and Morgan’s protective streak. But as she wrote, JJ realized she wasn’t just reporting facts, she was cataloguing human behaviour, just like she had in the field. And every word cut a little deeper.

The team didn’t know. They trusted her. They laughed with her. They let her into their world. And she was betraying it.

She had no choice. Strauss had ordered it, and she needed to get close to complete her real mission.

That night, sitting alone in her apartment, JJ stared at the BAU badge she had pinned to her wall. She had chosen her job for passion, for purpose. And now it was complicated.

She missed the simplicity of the first few weeks; laughter with Garcia, teasing Morgan, Gideon’s nods — but fun and espionage rarely mixed.

And she was learning the hardest truth of all: happiness in the BAU didn’t last long when Strauss was watching.

Present day,

JJ thought back to that first week, to the thrill of truly enjoying her work before she knew there was a hidden agenda. She made reports like normal, but it was nothing new, she was truly having fun for the first time in years.

Now, all she could think of was paperwork, the losses in her life, and how she had ended up here. She knew she wasn’t happy.

Chapter Text

A month ago,

The bullpen door swung open with a sharp click, and in walked Elle Greenaway. Confident stride, tailored suit, eyes already scanning the room as though she owned it.

JJ recognized the type instantly; not just an agent, but a woman used to being underestimated and then proving people wrong.

“Agent Greenaway,” Hotch greeted, stepping out of his office to shake her hand. Gideon barely looked up from his file, muttering something that might’ve been approval. Morgan grinned, the kind of grin he reserved for new teammates.

JJ stayed near her desk, observing he knew Elle’s file: Miami, violent crimes, sharp instincts, tough as nails. A good agent is what the BAU needed right now. Strauss had made sure JJ knew everything so she could spy for her, though JJ only ever passed along the bare minimum.

Elle’s eyes swept the room and landed briefly on JJ. A polite smile, then gone. To Elle, JJ was just the liaison, the press buffer. Which suited JJ just fine. The less anyone looked too closely at her, the safer she’d be.

Still, JJ couldn’t help noticing the tension in Elle’s posture, the way her jaw tightened when Gideon barked instructions. The flicker of doubt she masked with bravado. It was the same look JJ had seen in too many operatives pushed too hard, too fast. And it always ended the same.

Elle wouldn’t last here. JJ knew that now. The empty desk in the corner wasn’t meant for Elle. It was waiting for someone else.

Elle’s First Weeks,

Elle Greenaway didn’t do small talk. Not really. Not unless it had a purpose. But JJ noticed how the team was slowly adapting to her presence and she catalogued every move.

The first morning, Elle sat at her desk quietly, scanning case files while everyone else chattered around her. Reid muttered statistics; Morgan smirked at something JJ didn’t catch; Gideon barely looked up. Hotch, as always, stood back, evaluating. JJ noted the body language, the timing, the subtle micro-expressions, all useful information.

Derek Morgan cornered Elle one afternoon in the gym, tossing a medicine ball with effortless ease. “So, you play, huh? Or just staring at the ball makes you feel alive?” he teased. Elle smirked, tossing it back with precision. JJ filed that, Morgan was testing her, gauging her confidence and reflexes. Every throw, every sidestep, told a story about how she might perform under stress.

Penelope Garcia barged into Elle’s space one morning, glittering energy and a laptop in tow. “We need to fix your tech setup! And maybe you need a snack. And a playlist. And… okay, just come with me!” Elle rolled her eyes, but followed. JJ noted the shift: shoulders loosening, eyes softening. Social bonds forming. Vulnerability. A team member’s emotional flexibility could be leveraged, or exploited, later.

Gideon surprised her once, leaving a folder on Elle’s desk with a note: “Good instinct on the interview yesterday.” No fanfare, no praise but JJ mentally logged it: acknowledgment, not encouragement. Useful. Gideon’s approval was currency; Elle was spending it carefully.

Hotch never said much, but JJ saw how he began passing her files without hesitation, expecting her to handle them. Small, quiet gestures of trust. Those tiny gestures spoke volumes about hierarchy and influence. JJ catalogued it all: interactions, body language, loyalty signals.

Elle wasn’t exactly “family” yet. But she was weaving herself into the fabric of the BAU, and JJ could see it clearly. Every laugh, every smirk, every subtle nod, evidence of connection and vulnerability.

JJ didn’t relax. She smiled when expected, joked lightly, nodded when necessary. But inside, she was running simulations. How would Elle react under pressure? Could she be manipulated? Did she notice JJ’s careful watching?

Strauss would want answers. And JJ needed to deliver something.

Chapter Text

Last week,

The call came just after dawn.

JJ was on her second cup of coffee when Hotch’s voice carried across the bullpen. “We’ve got a case in Richmond. Multiple female homicide victims.”

Elle Greenaway straightened in her chair, eyes sharpening. JJ watched her silently, noting the precision in her posture, the way her hands flexed — ready for anything.

The First Scene

Inside the house, Elle crouched beside the bodies, examining every detail. “This lipstick isn’t hers,” she muttered, pulling a second tube from a drawer. “Different brand, different shade. He brought it with him.”

Gideon looked up from the file he held. “He’s angry. That’s all you need to know.”

Elle’s jaw tightened. “No. He’s performing. Staging. Trying to throw us off.”

JJ kept her face neutral, silently recording every detail. Gideon’s dismissal. Elle’s frustration. The tension simmering under the surface.

She won’t last if she challenges him head-on, JJ thought. The only way she survives here is if she plays Gideon’s game.

Escalation

By the second day, a third victim had been found, it was worse then the first 2. The team’s original suspect, the ex-husband of one victim, had been wrong. Elle had predicted it from the start.

JJ stood just outside the crime scene tape, badge clipped neatly to her blazer. She looked the part: calm, professional, the liaison who always had the right soundbite ready. But her spy instincts ignored the flashing cameras and zeroed in on the pattern inside the house.

Lipstick smeared across the walls. A message scrawled in frantic red: LIAR. Furniture overturned. A woman lying dead on the living room floor, shot twice in the chest.

It was messy. Too messy.

Cracks in the Team

At the briefing, Elle’s voice cut sharply across the room.

“We’re chasing the wrong guy!” she snapped, slamming her file onto the table. “This unsub isn’t a jealous ex or some bitter boyfriend. He’s planned every single detail. He’s taunting us and you’re too busy proving yourself right to see it.”

The room froze. Gideon’s eyes narrowed. Reid shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Morgan looked between them, tense. Hotch’s expression remained calm, but the tension in the room was palpable.

JJ made notes quietly, cataloguing every reaction. The crack in the team was widening, and Strauss would see it as a fault line.

JJ hoped she wouldn’t. But she knew better.

The Lead

Elle’s theory led them to a co-worker of the second victim, a man overlooked for a promotion, simmering with resentment.

She requested to interview him alone. Hotch hesitated but agreed. Gideon warned, “Don’t go off script.”

Elle did anyway.

JJ watched from the observation room as the suspect grew agitated. Elle’s tone stayed steady, precise — but when he lashed out, Morgan had to intervene. Elle was shaken, furious, humiliated.

Hours later, the team finally connected the dots. The unsub matched Elle’s theory perfectly. The lipstick, the staged chaos, the misdirection. Elle had been right from the start.

But the praise she received was hollow. Weeks of being dismissed had left scars. JJ understood more than anyone that this wasn’t about the case, it was about the team’s inability to trust one of their own.

Breaking Point

Elle didn’t celebrate the arrest. She didn’t even look at the man as they hauled him away.

Later, JJ found herself watching as Elle marched into Hotch’s office. The door slammed behind her, but voices still carried.

“This job, this team, it’s not what I signed up for.” Elle’s voice cracked, heavy with fury and something like grief. “You want me to ignore my instincts until you’re ready to tell me I was right? I won’t watch another victim die for that.”

Hotch’s reply was quiet, impossible to hear. A pause. Then the metallic clink of a badge hitting the desk.

When Elle emerged, her face was unreadable. She didn’t look at anyone. Not even Morgan.

The bullpen fell into uneasy silence. Gideon took himself to his office to buried himself in paperwork. Reid shuffled files. Morgan swore under his breath.

No one noticed JJ’s stillness in the corner. The way her pen rested on her notepad, her expression calm, betraying nothing.

But inside, JJ wasn’t calm. She was calculating. Recording.

Elle hadn’t been broken by the case. She’d been broken by the team. And if Strauss wanted proof the BAU devoured its own… JJ had just witnessed it firsthand.

Her eyes drifted to the empty desk in the corner. Waiting.

Not for Elle.

For someone else.

Chapter Text

Present day

The bullpen was quieter than usual. Elle’s absence lingered like a ghost. Her desk cleared out overnight, her name already erased. Officially, she’d resigned. Unofficially? JJ knew better, Elle had been pushed until she cracked. No one spoke about it, not directly. But JJ saw it in the way Morgan avoided looking at the corner desk, in the way Reid fidgeted more than usual, in the way Hotch stayed locked in his office longer each morning.

Gideon pretended nothing had changed. Which, to him, was probably true.

JJ, however, knew better. Teams fractured from the inside, not the outside. Elle’s exit wasn’t just her choice. It was the culmination of cracks Strauss had been waiting for. And now, the desk sat empty. Waiting.

Waiting for who Strauss had wanted here all along.

The door opened mid-afternoon.

Emily Prentiss stepped inside.

Dark hair, dark eyes, crisp suit. Her stride was confident, but not flashy; precise, but careful. JJ noticed it immediateld, calculated entry, deliberate posture.

JJ’s breath caught before she could stop it. She’d prepared for this moment in theory, but reality was different.

Her.

The room shifted as Emily crossed the threshold. Hotch rose, moving to greet her. Gideon muttered under his breath, Reid blinked like he was trying to place her, and Morgan leaned back with that sceptical grin he always wore around new agents.

JJ stayed very still. She forced her expression into neutrality, professional warmth. The kind of look she’d practiced for years. They both knew not to say too much.

But when Emily’s eyes flicked across the room, just a glance, no longer than a heartbeat, JJ felt it.
Recognition.
Memory.
Something sharp and unspoken crackling in the space between them.

The others didn’t notice. They saw a transfer agent being introduced. JJ saw the ghost of late-night missions, whispered promises, a life neither of them had been able to keep.

“Agent Prentiss,” Hotch said evenly, shaking her hand.

“Sir, it’s nice to meet you.” Emily’s voice was calm, controlled. Too controlled.

JJ watched the way Emily carried herself. Not stiff, but deliberate. She knew how to stand, how to hold her hands, how to make herself seem both approachable and unthreatening. Classic cover work. The kind you only learned by living it, and JJ knew it.

JJ catalogued every detail automatically. The faintest hesitation before Emily set her bag down, the practiced smile that didn’t reach her eyes, the way she avoided looking directly at JJ again.

But JJ felt the weight of it anyway.
She always would.

JJ kept her smile polite, professional, the liaison mask firmly in place. Inside, though, her instincts prickled. Strauss hadn’t just filled a vacancy. She had placed a piece on the board. And she wanted to know why and if she knew how much Emily meant to her once upon a time.

Emily didn’t sit at Elle’s desk right away. She hovered near Hotch, listening, waiting for a signal. JJ noted the subtle hesitation. Someone who wanted to fit in, but also someone who understood she was walking into hostile territory. JJ didn’t know which one Emily would have preferred.

When she finally crossed to the desk in the corner, JJ’s stomach tightened.

The desk she’d been watching for months.
The desk she knew wasn’t for Elle.

It was for Emily.

The introductions rolled on.

Morgan cracked a joke about “rookies” and “earning your stripes.” Reid rattled off facts like he’d memorized it. Gideon muttered something dismissive. Hotch gave her only as much space as necessary.

Emily played along smoothly, nodding, smiling, replying with clipped professionalism. To them, she was just another agent Strauss had forced on the team.

But JJ saw more. Emily’s control wasn’t casual, it was Armor. She was balancing on a knife’s edge, just like JJ was.

And then it happened again.

A glance. So brief it could’ve been accidental. But JJ caught it.
Not the look of strangers.
The look of two people who shared history. Secrets. Love they couldn’t afford to show.

That night, JJ sat at her desk long after the others had gone. Strauss’s encrypted message waited in her inbox:

“Prentiss. Assess. Report.”

JJ stared at the screen, her fingers hovering over the keys.

She should write what Strauss wanted, that Emily was settling in, that the team was adjusting, that the cracks from Elle’s departure were still visible.

But how could she put Emily into words?

Not without giving something away. Not without betraying her.

JJ shut the laptop without typing a word. For the first time since she’d been assigned here, she wasn’t sure she could play both sides.

Because Emily wasn’t just another agent.
Emily was hers. Whether she liked it or not.

And no cover, no alias, no Strauss in the world, could erase that.

Chapter Text

Emily trailed after Hotch as he gave her the official orientation: chain of command, team structure, responsibilities. His voice was steady, clinical. When a call came into his office mid-sentence, he turned toward JJ.

“Agent Jareau will bring you up to speed,” he said before disappearing inside.

JJ was already standing. She smoothed her blazer with a precision that made Emily’s chest tighten. She had been expecting this.

“Come on,” JJ said lightly. “I’ll walk you through how things work around here.”

Emily fell into step beside her, strides matching as though it had always been this way. But the air between them was sharp, thick with something neither dared name.

“So,” Emily began, tone neutral. “You’re the media liaison.”

JJ’s lips curved into a polite smile. “That’s what the plaque says on the door.” Her eyes flicked sideways, assessing. Measuring. Once inside her office, the door clicked shut, and the air seemed to shift.

JJ’s voice shifted, crisp and practiced. “The BAU usually has three to five active cases flagged at Quantico. We deploy when the local field office can’t handle it. Hotch makes the final call. Gideon… usually disagrees.”

There was a dry edge in her tone that made Emily’s mouth twitch. “Efficient.”

“Efficient isn’t the word I’d use.” JJ’s gaze lingered, cool and sharp. “It works because each of us balances the others’ extremes. Reid will bury you in statistics if you let him. Morgan cracks jokes but he sees more than people realize. Gideon drives the profile, Hotch keeps it steady. And me?” She paused. “I make sure the chaos doesn’t leave these walls.”

Emily nodded, cataloguing not just the words but the cadence. JJ spoke with precision, each phrase carrying more weight than her title suggested.

“And Garcia?” Emily asked, testing.

JJ’s expression softened, barely. “Our tech analyst. She’ll find any digital trail and smother you with affection in the same breath. She’s the heart of this team. Don’t underestimate her.”

“You sound protective,” Emily said.

JJ’s shoulders shifted, the mask slipping for a beat. “We look out for each other. It’s the only way we survive this work. Out there, you see the worst of humanity. In here—” her eyes lingered too long “—you trust the person next to you.”

The words struck Emily like a code phrase, something whispered years ago in safer, darker places.

“And you?” Emily pressed.

JJ held her gaze. “Reporters, brass, local LEOs. I filter all of it so the others can work without interference.” Her voice dropped, more intimate. “And sometimes, I remind them what it costs if we fail.”

Emily stilled. The rhythm, the weight, not the voice of a liaison. Not just that.

JJ opened the conference room door, professional smile back in place. “You’ll settle in fast. Everyone does. Just… don’t try too hard to prove yourself. Actions speak louder than words.”

The phrase landed like a trigger. A message wrapped in plain sight. Emily’s pulse ticked faster, but she forced her expression neutral.

“And the team as people?” she asked.

JJ fell back into briefing mode. “Hotch is the anchor. Gideon’s unpredictable. Reid’s a genius but forgets people aren’t case files. Morgan will test you before he trusts you. Garcia will fix your phone before you can complain.”

Emily chuckled. Genuine. The sound cracked JJ’s mask for half a heartbeat, warmth, recognition. Then just as quick as cracked she put her mask back.

Their eyes met across the glass table, a hum in the silence between them. For a breath, the years and aliases dissolved.

Then JJ checked her watch, breaking it. “The BAU has a way of pulling you under.”

Emily nodded, but suspicion still ached in her chest.

If JJ was who she thought she was, nothing about this would ever be simple again.

Chapter Text

The call came in late evening. Two active killers in St. Louis, both escalating, both leaving bodies. The local field office couldn’t keep up, and the BAU was called in.

By the time the jet lifted off, the tension was thick. Gideon paced like a caged animal, sketching on scraps of paper. Reid rattled statistics about serial overlap, Morgan smirked at him with weary amusement, and Hotch stared at the map with quiet intensity.

Emily sat mid row, posture crisp but not stiff, dark eyes scanning the files. She didn’t jump into the conversation, didn’t try to impress anyone. But JJ, watching from the corner of her eye, noticed the way Emily measured everyone. She was cataloguing tells, the same way JJ did.

JJ cleared her throat, slipping into briefing mode.
“Local PD is calling them the Hollow Man and the Mill Creek Killer. One strangles, one bludgeons. Both targeting women in their twenties. The media’s already drawing comparisons, which means I’ll be running point with the press before panic takes hold.”

Hotch nodded. “JJ, coordinate with local PD and control the media. Morgan and Prentiss, canvass with detectives. Gideon and Reid, work the geographic profile.”

Emily looked up when her name was called, her gaze brushing JJ’s for half a second. Recognition flickered there, sharp, searching, before she masked it behind professionalism.

In St. Louis, Emily proved herself fast. She kept stride with Morgan during canvass, asked sharp questions, pressed locals when they brushed her off. JJ, balancing reporters and local PD, saw the subtle signs no one else noticed: Emily’s eyes always tracked exits, her shoulders never fully relaxed, and her tone was controlled but never warm. It wasn’t just FBI training. It was habit, forged in places that didn’t make it onto official résumés.

But JJ wasn’t the only one watching.

Emily noticed things about JJ too.
The way she defused the police chief with a tone too precise, too tactical. How she switched seamlessly from coaxing to commanding when a detective tried to undermine her. How she never needed to write her notes down, yet nothing slipped past her.

A liaison could’ve learned those tricks. But Emily knew tradecraft when she saw it.
And JJ had it.

Late-night briefing.

The team argued escalation patterns: Reid buried in timelines, Morgan betting on victimology, Gideon scribbling. Emily stepped in with a measured observation about territory overlap, not loud, not flashy, just precise. The room stilled. Even Gideon acknowledged her point with a nod.

JJ, half-hidden behind her pen, felt it deep in her chest. That cadence. That calm precision. She’d heard it before, years ago, in shadows and safe houses.

She forced her face neutral. But her heart knew.

The case wrapped in two days. Both killers identified, both arrested. The team returned to Quantico bruised but intact.

Everyone else focused on paperwork. Emily lingered. She caught JJ’s eye once across the bullpen, nothing spoken, but something sharp in the glance. Suspicion. Maybe memory.

JJ pretended not to notice. Pretended too well.

Back in her office, JJ opened her laptop. Strauss’s encrypted message blinked in her inbox:

“Prentiss. Full evaluation. Reliability, loyalty, integration with team. Report by end of week.”

JJ stared at the cursor. She could type the words Strauss wanted: efficient, smart, fitting in. But every keystroke would feel like betrayal.

Because Emily wasn’t just another agent. She was more than Strauss would ever know.

JJ shut the laptop without typing a word.

Strauss wanted answers. But JJ wasn’t sure she had any left to give.

And worse. JJ wasn’t sure how long Emily would keep pretending she didn’t recognize her.

Chapter Text

The jet hummed with its usual low vibration, the kind that sank into bones and pulled eyelids heavy. Case files lay scattered across the table, half empty coffee cups abandoned in the lull of post case exhaustion.

Reid was the first to nod off, his head tipped against the window, murmuring something about statistics even in his sleep. Morgan threw a blanket at him with a smirk before stretching out across two seats himself. Gideon had disappeared into his thoughts with a worn notebook, while Hotch sat upright and alert, even in rest, a soldier who’d never surrendered his post.

Emily watched them all with a quiet, practiced eye. Her first case with the BAU was over, but she knew better than to think she was settled. Morgan’s teasing had softened into respect, Reid’s awkward facts now tinged with tentative camaraderie, Hotch’s silence felt more like observation than suspicion. Gideon… well, Gideon wasn’t an easy read for anyone.

They were starting to accept her. Slowly. Cautiously.

But JJ?
JJ hadn’t looked at her twice since the briefing ended. Not in a way anyone else would notice.

Which, of course, meant she’d noticed.

Emily shifted in her seat, unable to let it go. The cadence of JJ’s words earlier, the way she spoke about trust, about balance, about watching each other’s backs, it wasn’t just a media liaison’s rhetoric. It was something else. Something Emily had heard in rooms half a world away, whispered under false names with promises neither of them could keep.

She caught JJ across the aisle now, lit only by the glow of her laptop. Calm, composed, blazer still buttoned even though everyone else had shed theirs hours ago. JJ was typing a report, but Emily didn’t miss the way her fingers hovered a beat too long over the keys, as though choosing each word was a battle.

Testing. Filtering. Just like always.

Emily leaned forward, breaking the silence. “You make it look easy.”

JJ didn’t look up. “That’s the point.”

Emily tilted her head, voice light but probing. “Filtering the noise? Or carrying it so no one else has to?”

That made JJ’s hands still. Only for a second, but Emily caught it. A tell.

JJ glanced up, her expression politely curious, perfectly neutral. “You’ve been here one case and you’re already profiling me?”

“Just… observing.” Emily’s smile was careful. “It’s what you taught me, isn’t it?”

The air between them tightened like a wire pulled taut. For a moment, neither of them moved. JJ’s mask slipped — not fully, but enough. Recognition flickered in her eyes before she smothered it with practiced ease.

Emily sat back, pulse steady despite the ache in her chest. She had her answer now.

JJ was her JJ.

JJ turned back to her laptop, her tone even. “You did well today. The team will see it sooner than later. Just don’t rush it.”

Emily studied her for a long beat. “Actions speak louder than words, right?”

JJ’s lips pressed into the faintest smile, gone almost as quickly as it came. “Exactly.”

It was both an affirmation and a warning.

Emily let it rest, for now. The jet was too quiet, the others too close. But as the hum of the engines filled the silence again, she knew one thing for certain.

This wasn’t over.

Not for them.
Not ever.

JJ shut her laptop, but the faint glow of her phone lit her lap. A new message pulsed on the encrypted app no one on the jet knew existed.

Strauss: Prentiss. Full assessment. Report immediately.

JJ’s stomach tightened. Her thumb hovered over the screen. One word from her, and Strauss would know Emily was here, was competent, was already stirring things JJ had buried deep.

She locked the phone without replying. For now.
But the weight of Strauss’s demand pressed heavier than the jet’s cabin air.

And JJ knew it was only a matter of time before she’d have to choose:
The Bureau.
Or Emily.

Chapter Text

The case wrapped in Richmond just past midnight. The unsub was in custody, paperwork was already piling up, and the team sat in the conference room for one last debrief before they could finally go home.

Hotch kept it clinical. “We missed the escalation window,” he said, voice steady but sharp. “Next time, we catch the stressors sooner.”

Gideon muttered from the end of the table, “Or we stop wasting time chasing the wrong leads in the first place.” His eyes flicked to Hotch, daring him to push back.

Reid filled the silence, words tumbling fast. “Statistically, workplace shooters escalate after perceived humiliation. Our unsub’s demotion fit the pattern exactly—”

Morgan cut him off with a shake of his head. “Kid, nobody in the field is quoting statistics while bullets are flying.”

Laughter rippled faintly, though no one really smiled. Emily sat with perfect posture, listening, absorbing, filing away dynamics she hadn’t earned the right to touch yet. JJ, from her corner, noticed everything; Gideon’s restless hands, Reid’s nervous tics, Morgan’s protective tone. Fault lines everywhere, just like Strauss had warned.

JJ folded her notepad shut, hiding the words she hadn’t written.

By dawn, the team had scattered. Outside the courthouse, JJ faced a wall of flashing cameras. Reporters shouted questions about the shooter’s motives, about FBI failures, about how many lives might have been saved if they’d acted faster. JJ’s voice was steady, every syllable polished:

“We cannot always predict human behaviour, but what we can do, what we must do is protect each other. That’s what the Behavioural Analysis Unit is here to do. We stop killers before they strike again. And we will continue to do so.”

The microphones caught nothing more than professionalism. But Emily, standing in the shadows behind the cameras, caught something else. The cadence. The choice of words. Protect each other. It wasn’t a soundbite. It was a code.

That night, JJ sat alone in her office. The glow of her laptop was the only light. The encrypted message blinked in her inbox:

“Report. Prentiss integration status. Trust level.”

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She typed: “Agent Prentiss has been received. She is adapting. The team continues to show stress fractures from Agent Greenaway’s departure.”

She stared at the cursor, blinking against the emptiness of the page. She didn’t type what she should have, that Emily wasn’t adapting, she was calculating. That Emily already suspected her. That JJ’s chest ached every time Emily’s eyes lingered too long.

She deleted half her report, then rewrote it, softer, vaguer. Enough to satisfy Strauss. Enough to keep Emily safe.

When she finally hit send, she closed the laptop as though it burned her fingers.

Emily tested her the next morning. Casual, almost playful, hidden in plain sight.

“Funny,” she said over coffee in the break room, “being here reminds me of a safe house I once spent too much time in. Long nights, bad instant coffee, no windows.”

JJ didn’t flinch. She stirred her tea, calm, detached. “Sounds charming.”

Later, in the bullpen, Emily dropped another breadcrumb while reviewing case notes with Reid. “Reminds me of nights waiting for intel that never came. You learn patience… or you break.”

JJ smiled faintly from across the room, as though she hadn’t heard. But her fingers tightened around her pen until the knuckles went white.

Emily saw it. She said nothing. Not yet.

The next briefing was tense. Gideon and Hotch clashed over strategy for a cold case consultation, voices low but cutting. Reid fidgeted, Morgan leaned back with folded arms, and Garcia’s voice chirped through the speakerphone, trying to lighten the mood.

JJ’s gaze flicked from one to the other. Gideon’s frustration. Hotch’s restraint. The little fractures Strauss loved to talk about. Strauss wanted her to map them, feed them back like coordinates.

JJ closed her notebook without writing a word.

When the meeting broke, Emily caught her by the arm in the corridor. It was subtle, controlled, a move from muscle memory — from years of operating in shadows.

“You can pretend all you want,” Emily murmured, voice low enough that no one else could hear, “but I know it’s you.”

JJ’s mask didn’t slip. Her smile was polite, her posture perfect, her tone professional. But her eyes softened, just for Emily.

“Then you know why you can’t say anything.”

Emily let go, but her hand lingered for a heartbeat too long. JJ turned and walked away, every step measured.

Emily didn’t call after her. But her eyes followed, sharp and certain.

She finally knew.

Chapter Text

Emily didn’t sleep. She lay awake in her hotel room, staring at the ceiling, replaying every word, every glance, every mask JJ had worn since she arrived. The cadence of her voice. The way her fingers tightened around a pen when Emily pushed. The warmth in her eyes that no cover story could bury.

It was JJ.
It had to be.
But if it was… then what the hell was she doing here?

The bullpen, the next morning, hummed with quiet exhaustion. A consult case had come in overnight, an abduction with a possible serial element. Local PD had asked for BAU support.

Hotch laid out the basics, assigning tasks. Morgan and Reid prepped to fly out with him and Gideon. Garcia promised intel from her lair. Emily waited for her role.

“Agent Prentiss, you’ll stay back and assist JJ with coordination,” Hotch said simply.

JJ didn’t flinch, but Emily caught the subtle pause. A flicker of tension in her jaw before she smoothed it away.

Back in JJ’s office, Emily leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. “So. Coordination.”

JJ didn’t look up from her files. “Someone has to manage the locals and keep the media in check. That’s where you come in.”

Emily tilted her head. “You sound like you’ve done this a thousand times.”

“I have.” JJ’s tone was clipped, efficient. But there was an undertone Emily knew too well: deflection.

Emily crossed the room, lowering her voice. “Cut the act. I know who you are.”

JJ finally looked at her, blue eyes sharp and steady. “Then you know not to say it out loud.”

Emily’s jaw tightened. “Why? Who’s pulling your strings this time?”

JJ didn’t answer. She glanced toward the bullpen, making sure no one was within earshot, then back at Emily. Her voice dropped into something low and raw. “This isn’t the place.”

Emily studied her, every instinct screaming to push harder. But she saw it in JJ’s eyes, the steel wrapped in fear. Not fear of being caught, but fear of what would happen if she was.

Emily stepped back, giving her space. “Fine. For now.”

JJ exhaled, tension bleeding from her shoulders. She slid a folder across the desk. “Local PD sent over crime scene photos. Make yourself useful.”

The words were brusque, but the tiniest flicker in her eyes said more. Thank you.

They worked side by side for hours, building timelines, cross-checking victimology. To the team, it looked like routine collaboration. But under the surface, every exchange was layered.

Emily asked about case protocol, JJ’s answers clipped but thorough. Emily pressed for how much autonomy Hotch gave them, JJ’s tone sharpened, warning her off. Emily mentioned old safe houses. Again, JJ didn’t react, but her pen pressed so hard it tore the paper.

By late afternoon, the silence between them was heavy with everything unspoken.

When the team returned from the field, Hotch asked for an update. JJ briefed him cleanly, efficiently, without a single slip. Emily stood at her side, silent, her face unreadable.

Hotch nodded. “Good work. Both of you.”

When he left, Emily leaned just close enough for JJ to hear. “You can hide from them. But not from me.”

JJ didn’t look at her. Her smile stayed in place. Her voice stayed steady. But her hand, flat against the file, trembled.

Emily saw it.

And for the first time since she’d walked through the BAU doors, she knew the real battle wasn’t with the unsubs.

It was between her and JJ, and the secrets threatening to swallow them both.

Chapter Text

The police station buzzed with controlled chaos, ringing phones, clacking keyboards, officers pacing, the low murmur of panic trying to assert itself. Another victim. Another hour lost.

Hotch’s voice cut through the noise. “Morgan and Reid, you’re with Prentiss. Go interview the family of the latest victim. JJ, you’ll be with me. We’ll brief the local PD and manage the press.”

JJ squared her shoulders, the mask of calm snapping into place. Emily noticed the subtle shift — the way JJ’s spine stiffened, the precise adjustment of her blazer. She had been expecting this, and yet the tension under her surface radiated anyway.

In the briefing room

JJ faced a room full of jittery local officers and two nervous press liaisons. She moved smoothly, outlining the unsub’s M.O.: victims were all professional women, abducted mid-evening, no signs of forced entry. Each crime scene bore the same signature: a single red rose left on the victim’s desk. She explained the timeline, the pattern, and emphasized that the BAU was collaborating with local resources to catch him before he could strike again.

Then a grizzled detective leaned forward. “Agent Jareau, your background… media liaison? You’re not in the field. Why are you here?”

JJ’s smile was precise, empty of emotion. “My role is to ensure the investigation isn’t compromised. I coordinate information, manage communications, and provide oversight. That’s what matters.”

Before the detective could press, Emily’s voice cut through — calm, measured, authoritative. “You’ll find that JJ isn’t just handling press. She anticipates what you don’t even know needs watching. Respect that, or this investigation suffers.”

JJ felt the heat rise in her cheeks — a reflexive defense she didn’t need, and yet, it stirred something long buried. Emily didn’t look at her as she said it, but the intention was unmistakable.

Hallway outside the briefing room

JJ caught Emily’s arm as the team moved toward the staging area. Her voice was low, sharp: “I didn’t need you stepping in back there.”

Emily tilted her head, cool. “He was wasting time. I corrected it.”

JJ’s gaze narrowed. “You weren’t correcting him. You were protecting me.”

Emily smirked faintly, leaning in so her words barely grazed JJ’s ear: “Old habits die hard.”

Recognition flared like a match. JJ felt a rush of frustration and longing, and the years of unsaid words pressed between them. The chaos of the station melted around them, leaving just two ghosts colliding in the present.

Then Hotch’s voice carried down the hall. “Prentiss, JJ — new lead. Now.”

JJ let go of Emily’s arm, her mask snapping back. “We’ll talk later,” she muttered, following Hotch. 

In the field

Emily moved through the victim’s office, observing the layout and the signs of staging: drawers opened but untouched, a computer still logged in, the same red rose placed deliberately on the desk. She called out observations: “He’s leaving them in controlled environments. No struggle suggests he’s confident, maybe knows the victim or has been watching for weeks.”

JJ stood slightly back, badge visible, observing the local detectives’ reactions and cataloguing their micro-expressions. She noted how Emily moved — precise, methodical, scanning everything, leaving nothing unexamined. A whisper of memory tickled JJ: the way Emily had moved in field ops years ago, the same controlled chaos, the same instinctive awareness.

They followed a lead to a neighbouring office building. Surveillance footage confirmed a man had been watching the victims for weeks — same clothing pattern, same route. Emily crouched behind a pillar, whispering to Morgan and Reid about a potential profile: organized, narcissistic,

possibly obsessive.

JJ couldn’t help herself. She leaned just enough, whispering to Emily: “We need to alert the local PD quietly. If he suspects surveillance, we lose our advantage.”

Emily’s eyes flicked to hers, and for the first time, recognition broke through the careful professional mask. A small, sharp inhale betrayed her awareness. “JJ…”

JJ’s heart skipped, but her tone stayed steady. “Keep your voice low. We’re not alone here.”

Later back at the station,

The pieces finally came together: unsub was a disgruntled colleague of one of the victims, bitter about being passed over for promotion. His obsession escalated into murder. Thanks to Emily’s fieldwork and JJ’s coordination, the BAU orchestrated a controlled apprehension.

In the debriefing room, Emily watched JJ coordinate the press statements, relay updates, and protect the team. Each move spoke volumes — control, timing, instinct. And Emily realized: she hadn’t been seeing just the media liaison all along. She had been seeing the JJ she knew, the one she had trusted with her life in ways no one else could understand.

After the others left, Emily lingered. JJ noticed, and their eyes met across the table. No words were exchanged, yet everything was understood.

“I knew it,” Emily whispered finally, almost to herself.

JJ’s breath caught, but her professional mask stayed in place. “Shh. Not here.”

The cases, the team, the BAU bureaucracy,  none of it mattered for a heartbeat. Recognition had finally broken through the layers of cover and protocol.

And nothing would ever be simple again.